


Careful

by breathtaken



Series: All of Us [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I find it could not otherwise be expressed, than by making answer: because it was he, because it was I"; or, how the duo became a trio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

####  _Château d'Eaucourt-sur-Somme (ruins), Picardie; August 1625_

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this."

Aramis shifts irritably, the cloak he lies upon providing scant cushioning from the ground underneath, which is still stony and uneven despite their earlier attempts to kick it into submission. He can feel something digging into his back, and wriggles a bit more, trying to dislodge it, but it's no use. In the end he sighs and sits up, shrugging Porthos' arm off, and lifts the cloak's edge to scrabble around for the culprit, a sharp stone that looks a lot smaller than it felt when he was lying on it.

Either Porthos' upbringing or a quirk of physiology seems to have given him the ability to sleep anywhere; and in the few months since Tréville's started sending them on special operations together, it's become the bane of Aramis' existence. Previous incidences including a haystack, behind the altar in a chapel, and even, on one memorable occasion, up a tree. And now in some ruins in the middle of bloody nowhere in Picardie.

Compared with some of the things Porthos has put him through, it's not _too_ bad here, Aramis concedes, though he's never going to admit it. While the dirt floor of the former castle's one remaining tower is no feather bed, he can see the sun setting through the arrow loop, and it is at least promising to be a warm night.

"I'm not going to get a wink of sleep," Aramis continues, heart not really in it, but wanting to make a token protest all the same.

"I don't suppose I could argue that it's a good vantage point for observing the villagers?" Porthos replies, lying behind him.

"What, both of them?" Aramis quips. "Besides, we could observe them much more efficiently from a warm bed in the local inn."

"We wouldn't exactly be inconspicuous," Porthos points out. "Also, I thought we might appreciate some privacy." His warm, broad hands stroke with a familiar gentleness across Aramis' lower back, where the hem of his shirt has risen up. Aramis feels his lover's touch come to focus on one particular spot, just above his right kidney, and tenses as he realises what it is that's drawn his attention. "You never did tell me how you got that scar."

Aramis is silent as he smoothens out the edge of the cloak on the ground, and moves to turn back into what passes for their bedroll. Porthos must have realised he's unwittingly stepped into serious territory. "It's alright," he replies, removing his hands from Aramis' sides; and Aramis feels a sudden coldness at the loss of touch. "You don't have to tell me."

"And yet I find I want to," Aramis replies sincerely. It's an incident he's pushed from his mind for years, but the memory no longer smarts as immediately as it once did; maybe it's time to see if it can be put to rest.

He wriggles about a bit in the bedroll, settling down and putting his arm over Porthos' waist. "You'll remember that when we met, I told you everything I'd learned about how to be careful and discreet when assessing the intentions of a man you desired."

"Yeah, I remember."

"And I suppose this is the story of how I began to learn that myself – the hard way."

Aramis takes a breath, steeling himself for the story he's about to tell. Porthos says nothing, simply cups Aramis' jaw in his hand for a moment and strokes along the line of it with his thumb in silent encouragement.

"Before I first came to Paris, I spent a few months lying low in Toulouse after a sudden departure from my hometown."

He can see the white of Porthos' teeth in the twilight as his comrade grins in recognition. "After you deflowered the mayor's daughter."

"After I was _caught in private_ with the mayor's daughter and her father refused to believe that I was merely reading to her," Aramis protests. "I never laid a finger on the lady."

"So you claim," Porthos replies, with a tone that says he isn't taken in.

"I would swear it until my dying day. Anyway, I took up a position in the Toulouse city guard, where I quickly found I was a cut above the rest, shall we say. They were mostly appallingly dull fellows, and not particularly skilled with a blade, let alone a musket. And there I was – young, talented, attractive, and full of myself."

"Well, you're definitely still one of those things."

Aramis rolls his eyes, though he feels a secret warmth at the teasing. "Quiet, you. Even by comparison, though, I thought I was immortal. And the only man who could match me in intelligence or skill, the only one who was worth my notice, was Philippe."

Porthos raises an eyebrow. "You've never mentioned a Philippe."

"Unfortunately, Philippe was a bit of a sore subject for quite some time," Aramis replies ruefully. "We were inseparable from the day we met. It was like we knew each other inside out – like we'd always known each other. And I really _thought_ he felt what I felt. Though I was undoubtedly just seeing in him what I wanted to."

Aramis gazes up at the stone ceiling, and for the first time in a long time, truly allows himself to remember what happened. The man who had burst into his life like a star, like the other half of himself, with whom he'd shared everything, purpose and experience. The first man he'd loved as more than just a friend – as a brother, as his whole world.

And when he began to recognise the desire in his love, though he'd known all too well that it was not commonly spoken of, he had thought that Philippe, the one he loved, would understand. How could he not? But as he spoke, the expression of understanding on his brother's face had turned to horror and disgust… and even now he still feels the blooming of shame, welling up from the abandoned corners of his heart where he keeps it suppressed.

He was never ashamed after Philippe. Deliberately. He swore to himself he wouldn't be, even though he falls in love with people he's not supposed to love, and he's tried to honour it in word and deed ever since. But just as his first love's knife left a scar on his body, his thorough rejection left scars that were not so easily visible.

"Didn't go well then, I take it," Porthos prompts, and Aramis realises he's not said anything for some time.

"Not as such. I told him, and when he realised what I meant, he swore that I was disgusting and unnatural and he was going to run me through," Aramis finishes, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Unfortunately, he was the one person in that guard who _could_ wield a sword."

Porthos winces. "What happened?"

"To him? No idea, in the end. I was trying to knock him out, but he didn't give me a chance, and I was beginning to tire. So I stabbed him in the thigh to try and disable him. But it went deeper than I'd intended. I was… not in control of myself," Aramis says, feeling that's the closest he can get to explaining the mess of emotions that had overwhelmed him.

"I took his sword. But he had a knife in his boot, and he managed to get me in the back with it, fortunately not too badly. Then I ran, I found a physician of the sort who wouldn't ask questions, and as soon as I was well enough to ride I saddled up and never looked back. Fortunately I'd already been less than honest about who I was in Toulouse, so if anyone did bother to look for me they would have had very little to go on. And that was when I realised I would have to be a good deal more careful in the future."

Porthos leans in to kiss him. "You got out of it alive, that's what's important," he says reassuringly, and in his eyes Aramis can read all the things he isn't saying.

"Yes, that was definitely a wake-up call," Aramis replies lightly, not wanting to wallow any further. "Since then I've been a model of discretion."

Porthos snorts. "Even though I sometimes have to remind you to keep to your own rules."

"Even though sometimes I want you so badly I'm half-minded to take you in the garrison courtyard."

His lover laughs broadly. "Somehow I don’t think that would go down well."

"Probably not," Aramis agrees. "Now, seeing as you were so keen on coming to this ridiculous place, I think it's only right that you should convince me of the benefits."

"I think I can manage that," Porthos replies with a smile, rolling Aramis onto his back and moving to cover his lover's body with his own.  


	2. Chapter 2

####  _Paris / Saint-Martin-de-Ré, Poitou; March 1626_

Aramis follows Porthos into Tréville's office, removing his hat as he does so and shaking the water droplets from the brim. Bloody northern weather, he doubts he'll ever get used to it.

"Gentlemen." Their captain barely looks up to greet them. His desk, normally so tidy, is a sea of overlapping parchments, and he looks distinctly frazzled.

"I have a job for you," Tréville continues without exchanging pleasantries. "An influential Huguenot ringleader named Jacques Laurens has recently returned to his old stomping ground in Saint-Martin-de-Ré, and we have reason to believe he's up to something."

Aramis is immediately alert, repeating the key pieces of information in his mind, committing them to memory. _Huguenot, Jacques Laurens, Saint-Martin-de-Ré._

"I know it's a long journey, but we need our best men on it. Your job is to get down there and tail him for a week or two, find out who he's talking to, if it looks like anybody's planning anything. Here's a list of people for you to check out." Tréville hands Aramis a piece of parchment. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you to memorise the information on that paper and burn it before you leave Paris.

"And this is important –" Tréville points his finger in emphasis – "The whole thing's _strictly_ exploratory. The entire La Rochelle region's still unstable and the last thing we need is anyone mysteriously winding up dead, especially at the hands of the King's men. And I want you to take the new man with you. Athos."

Aramis blinks, not sure for a moment who Tréville is referring to. "Athos?"

"Ray of sunshine." Porthos supplies in an undertone.

"Ah, him." _That's interesting_.

Tréville gives them a look. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"Are we evaluating him?"

"Not officially," Tréville replies, and Aramis can see his mind's already on something else. "Be prepared to leave at dawn. Now, if there's no questions? Dismissed."

As they descend the steps to the garrison courtyard, Aramis looks back over his shoulder at his comrade. "What do you think?"

"Ray of sunshine?" Porthos considers for a moment. "Well, he's good with a blade. _Very_ good. And he's been chosen for special operations already."

"And yet Tréville has his doubts." Aramis finishes for him. "I wonder if he's unstable. He certainly looks like a wet weekend in June."

* * *

The prospect of a month-long operation with the ray of sunshine, as Aramis has christened him, isn't exactly a thrilling one. The man's been with their company for probably six weeks or so and he's never so much as seen him chuckle. He doesn't appear to know anyone – seems to avoid the few who looks as though they might know him, which is curious – and as far as they can tell, his only hobby is drinking alone.

Added to which, Aramis had been hoping that he and Porthos would be able to enjoy some quality time together.

But Tréville appears to be interested in their opinion of Athos (whose name he should probably learn), and the ambitious part of Aramis can't help swelling with pride that he and Porthos are held in such high regard. Since they were first selected for special operations they've not had a failure, and he's been pleased to find that his lover is also someone he can genuinely work well with. Being in the same regiment is one thing, but just the two of them out in the field, entirely reliant on their own wits, is another; and they've taken to it well, if he does say so himself.

The three of them leave at dawn the next day, and ride hard. None of them relish a long journey on horseback; and Aramis is gratified to see that Athos is a decent horseman, who manages to competently keep up with him and Porthos. On the few stops they make, he makes no attempt to converse beyond what's necessary, so Aramis and Porthos carry on as they always have and leave him to please himself.

It's nearing dusk as they reach Étampes, their planned stop for the first night, and by the time they've stabled their horses they are all exhausted. It's weeks since Aramis has ridden so intensely, his arse is sore, and he has no interests beyond shovelling food down his throat and collapsing into a bed that hopefully doesn't have lice in it.

Even so, he does notice that Athos is on his third cup of wine by the end of the meal; and he shares a look with Porthos, who silently agrees that it doesn't seem particularly wise given the bruising pace they're going to be keeping up for the full hundred and forty leagues to their destination.

Still, he's not here to play mother, and it's not like Athos hasn't been briefed. "Be ready to ride at dawn," he tells him as he stands to retire. "It's going to be just as much fun as today was."

"Good night," Athos replies, not looking at either of them, just gazing into the fire with an expression on his face that Aramis would only describe as melancholy.

Aramis collapses into his bed, and the next thing he knows, dawn is beginning to filter through the shutters. Immediately awake, he dresses quickly and meets Porthos on the landing.

"Looking forward to another day in the saddle?" his comrade asks, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Looking forward to having my arse pounded mercilessly for hours on end," Aramis replies in a low voice, and squeezes Porthos' arm as the other man chuckles, the most affection they can show to each other except where their privacy is assured. "Have you seen our ray of sunshine?"

"Not a peep," Porthos replies. "Shall we knock for him?"

"We'd better," Aramis replies, and Porthos bangs a few times on the door with his fist.

"Coming!" Athos replies from behind the door, and they hear the unmistakeable creak of someone levering themselves out of bed. After not two minutes the door opens to reveal their bleary-eyed companion: looking, Aramis observes almost sympathetically, like hell.

"You're just in time for breakfast," Porthos says cheerfully in greeting, and at that, Athos' face goes somewhat green.

"No thank you," he replies, moving past them a little unsteadily. "I'll meet you in the stables."

As they sit down for breakfast, Aramis raises an eyebrow at Porthos, once he's sure that Athos has left the inn. "Still drunk?"

"Or hung over."

"Any idea what time went he to bed last night?" Porthos shakes his head, and Aramis sighs. "Well, we'll see if he keeps up, I suppose."

To his credit, Athos looks a shade more human when they meet him after breakfast; shaking droplets of water from his face, he saddles up his horse with an apparently steady hand. And when he continues to ride well throughout the day, and equally well throughout the days that follow, despite the amount of wine he puts away every night, Aramis decides that maybe he has no cause for concern after all.

* * *

The rest of the gruelling journey passes in much the same fashion; and it's a full nine days before they reach Saint-Martin-de-Ré, by which time Aramis is exhausted, fed up of the very sight of his horse, and aching for some physical comfort. Normally the first thing he would have done would be to drag Porthos off to a discreet room in a discreet house, and demand a very thorough massage – but with Athos in tow, it's not possible for the two of them to just disappear with no explanation, and he finds himself fully resenting the new man's existence.

They rent rooms in the first boarding-house they come to, run by a deaf old woman with a few missing teeth and a seemingly permanent air of suspicion; and after sleeping the sleep of the nearly comatose, the next morning they set about splitting up and staking out the targets on their list.

They agree that Porthos will initially tail the man himself, with Athos and Aramis dividing their time between secondary targets. Aramis' first draw is a blacksmith whose alleged Huguenot sympathies seems to have given way to the conspicuously devout Catholicism of the convert, and he appreciates the fact that the man spends a good part of his day in church. It's too long since he's been to Mass of his own volition.

Though the familiarity of ritual is soothing, Aramis finds that heartsickness still aches in his breast, brought on by having Porthos close enough to touch, but with any opportunity for intimacy denied them for this long. While he takes pride in his discretion where matters of the heart are concerned, that doesn’t mean he appreciates forced abstinence. Since they left Paris he hasn't dared do more than occasionally clasp his lover's hand, and it's wearing on him.

He wonders if they can sneak an hour together in the middle of the day: though temporarily abandoning their mission would be taking a serious liberty at best, it may be the only time they can be reasonably sure that Athos won't disturb them, and having a pretty much stone-deaf landlady is a stroke of fortune that isn't to be sniffed at. If he can just hold Porthos, touch him and taste his skin, even briefly, that'll keep him going until they're safely back in Paris and the privacy of his lodgings.

As the _Agnus Dei_ begins he rises from his pew, hat in hand. He's noticed nothing suspicious about this man (though he'll check up on him again in a couple of days just to be sure), so it's onto his next target, and all the while waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

* * *

It's already fully dark when Aramis gets back to their lodging-house that evening, having eaten in a rather dodgy tavern with one eye on a man called Lefurgey, who appears to be little more than a low-rent criminal with no apparent connection to Laurens, and then tailing him all the way back to his lodgings in case of a midnight rendezvous. The house is in darkness, their landlady having undoubtedly long since retired, with no indication of whether his two comrades are abed.

It's at that moment that a very attractive possibility presents itself to him. Porthos in his room, and Athos not – or even better, Athos having drunk himself into a stupor already, then there's no danger of him coming home and hearing anything. One of the few things Aramis has learned about their new companion is that he never misses an evening with his head in a bottle; and that the morning after, he's very hard to wake.

It's possibly as good an opportunity as he's going to get; and he sneaks up the stairs and slowly, carefully turns the handle to Porthos' room door without a doubt in his mind.

The slow, regular breathing he hears inside tells him that Porthos is indeed present, and Aramis closes the door behind him with a soft click that is still enough to wake his lover, who always sleeps the sleep of the paranoid.

"It's me," Aramis calls out softly, before he gets a dagger drawn on him.

"What is it?" Porthos asks, voice thick with sleep.

Aramis doesn't bother responding in words, just walks over to the bed and sits own on the edge of it, bending over to kiss Porthos deeply on the mouth. "Is our friend at home?"

"You're not serious," Porthos says as their lips part, and Aramis notes the tone of his voice: amused, exasperated, but not annoyed or unwelcoming. He's in luck, then.

"Well, is he?" Aramis presses.

"Yeah he is. And he was knocking it back all evening."

"He'll be out for hours then." Aramis leans over and speaks directly into Porthos' ear, knowing the soft feeling of his breath there drives his lover wild. "And the landlady's deaf as a post. So how about it?"

Aramis licks along the shell of Porthos' ear, and feels the other man shudder beneath him. He reaches up to open the shutters, letting moonlight flood the room. "I want to look at you," he says, and knows by the hitch of Porthos' breath that he has him convinced.

Porthos chuckles, low in his throat. "It's only fair if we get to look at each other," he replies, hands going to the hem of Aramis' shirt.

Aramis disrobes quickly, and joins Porthos in bed, pressing the length of their bodies together. "I've been thinking about this since we left," he murmurs against Porthos' jaw, kissing his way down his lover's neck, rocking his hips against him. "When we get back to Paris I'm going to take you home, lay you out on my bed, spread you open with my fingers and then fuck you senseless, until you're shouting, begging me to make you come."

With this he wraps his hand round the base of Porthos' cock, before sliding down the other man's body to take the shaft as deep into his mouth as he can.

Porthos' hands come down immediately to weave themselves into Aramis' hair, and he allows Porthos to dictate the pace, rolling his balls in the other hand. He looks up through his lashes, and the sight of him laid out in the moonlight, trying not to groan too loudly –

Suddenly there is a click behind him, and he sees Porthos' expression turn to one of horror before it occurs to him to turn and see Athos, leaning heavily against the open door frame with a candle in hand, and gawping at them for a second before stumbling out of the room and closing the door again.

 _Fuck_ , Aramis thinks, frozen in place for a moment; before instinct catches up with him, and he springs off the bed and grabs his dagger, stumbling out of the room not caring that he's buck-naked and still erect, and holds the blade at Athos' throat as he fumbles with the handle to his own bedroom door.

"Back inside. _Now_ ," he hisses, and feels Athos' body go tense underneath his arm.

He walks the other man back into their room, where Porthos is pulling on his shirt. He scowls at the pair of them, which Aramis knows means Porthos is terrified, and he feels a flood of guilt at the thought that it was his indiscretion that's got them into what is a very precarious situation indeed.

"I was looking for my room, I thought…" Athos mumbles, clearly still very drunk, and tails off as he realises that's no longer important. "What are you going to do?" he asks instead, matter-of-factly, almost as if he doesn't care.

An appetite for self-destruction is really not what Aramis wants to be dealing with here.

"Nothing I don't have to," Aramis says, not moving the dagger. "Now why don't you sit down and we'll have a little talk."

"Could you not hold a knife at my throat for that?" Athos replies, the tension in his muscles belying the cool tone of his voice, and Aramis idly considers punching him for a moment, just for the sake of it.

Managing to restrain himself, he gestures to Porthos, who draws his sword and goes to stand between Athos and the door. Athos sits on a stool opposite, and Aramis sits himself back down on the bed, throwing the blankets over his lap almost as an afterthought.

"Now, you've caught the two of us in a compromising position," Aramis begins, deadly polite. "Of course, we can't just let you walk away after seeing that."

"You need to make sure I'm not going to tell anyone," Athos replies, looking as though that fact is only just beginning to dawn on him.

"Bright boy," Aramis replies sarcastically, although Athos is at least his equal in age. "You see Porthos and I, we quite like keeping our commissions – and, hmm, being alive. And while I hesitate to use either violence or blackmail, be assured that we will have _no hesitation_ in slitting your throat if that's what we have to do to protect ourselves."

He meets Porthos' eyes briefly, and his lover nods.

"I won't tell anyone," Athos replies, slowly. "I can't see that I gain anything by it. What you two…" he frowns, " _do together_ is no concern of mine."

Aramis feels an inward flush of relief, but knows that he can't allow himself to relax just yet, that he has to be _certain_ that there will be no further consequences. "I'm glad to hear it. However we do need a little reassurance that you aren't just going to change your mind the moment we put our swords away."

"What do you suggest?"

Aramis leans forward and fixes Athos with the most dangerous expression he can muster.

"I don't trust you.

"From what I've seen so far you're a _very_ good fighter, and maybe one day I will be proud to call you friend. But right now I do not trust you. I want you to think very hard about the fact that you're on probation."

He pauses. Athos says nothing, just watches him like he would a snake; and Aramis silently prays that what he's about to say will have the desired effect.

"I know you're nobility," he continues. "I can tell by the way you talk and how you carry yourself, how you wield a sword. Nobody knows who you are, which suggests you don't want them to – presumably with the exception of Tréville, which is how you walked into the King's Musketeers and onto special operations within six weeks.

"You've also been drunk as a fish every night since we left Paris.

"Now, Tréville's a practical man, and I doubt your name is illustrious enough to protect you should Porthos and I tell him that his newest recruit is an incorrigible drunkard, who isn't fit to fulfil his duties or handle a weapon when he's in his cups, which is almost always."

Aramis pauses again, this time purely for effect. There's a hardness in Athos' eyes as they stare each other down, and he reflects briefly that this is not a man he would wish to cross, should he feel he had a choice.

" _Alternately_ , I propose a situation where we all decide to give each other the benefit of the doubt, and allow each other the opportunity to prove that we are good men and good soldiers. Despite our _vices_."

His piece said, Aramis damps down the inner voice that's offering up frantic prayers for deliverance, as he watches Athos carefully for signs that his threat has been well-judged.

"I'm not going to pretend I approve, or understand," Athos replies at last. "But I have no interest in making enemies of you… or destroying your lives."

It's that last observation that makes Aramis feel as though a weight has been lifted from his chest: the awareness of exactly what it would mean if the true nature of their relationship got out, that it could cost them not just their livelihood but their lives, is possibly the greatest gift Athos could have offered him.

Athos holds out his hand; and after a glance at Porthos, Aramis leans forward to shake it.

"Now, unless you want a good show, I suggest you return to _your_ room, which is the one on the left," Aramis finishes acidly, his nerves finally getting the better of him.

Athos stands so hurriedly that in any other situation it would be comic. "Good night," he mumbles, and pushes past Porthos and out of the room, closing the door behind himself slightly louder than is strictly necessary.

As Porthos walks back towards him, Aramis stands to immediately take him into his arms. "Fuck, I'm so sorry," he mumbles against his lover's neck, aware that the two of them appear to have had a very lucky escape.

"It's alright," Porthos says, kissing him gently on the mouth. "We're both to blame. Now let's get to bed."

"Can I stay?" Aramis asks hopefully, unsure if he doesn't want to be alone after that, or if he doesn't want to leave Porthos.

"Of course," Porthos replies as he strips off again, closes up the shutters and climbs into the bed, curling up against Aramis' back and pulling him close.

"I'd have killed him, you know," Aramis says quietly, feeling he needs to prove something – his devotion perhaps, or the fact that he can get them out of a dangerous situation even though he's the one who caused it, or that Porthos means more to him than his own honour as a gentleman.

"I know you would," Porthos replies tiredly, pulling a lock of Aramis' hair back from his face, and kissing his shoulder. "Sleep now. It'll be okay." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works inspired by this one: Andou Hayate has drawn a comic of one of the scenes from this chapter, which can be viewed at [their Tumblr](http://kingsdarga.tumblr.com/post/77564104037/a-scene-from-this-excellent-fic).


	3. Chapter 3

####  _Orléans; May 1626_

Aramis is in a foul mood.

There are several reasons for this, the first being that he's in Orléans. He hates Orléans, has done ever since a misunderstanding a few years ago (that he swears had nothing to do with a woman) led to him spending a full three nights in the notoriously nasty city prison before any of his fellow soldiers thought to get him out of there, and every time he returns to the city he's always half-convinced that something equally awful is going to happen.

And not only is he in Orléans, but he's been outsourced as guard duty for Monsieur le Prince1, also known as the Duke of Anjou; and if playing bodyguard to nobles isn't tedious enough, Monsieur le Prince also happens to be a colossal shit, and possibly Aramis' least favourite person in the entire court (which is saying something).

Finally, if the first two reasons weren't already great enough, Porthos managed to get himself stabbed a few days ago – which in addition to giving Aramis a few more grey hairs before his time, the end result is that his comrade's sleeping late back in Paris while Aramis is here alone with Athos, who has barely been able to look him in the eye since he walked in on him worshipping at the altar of Porthos a few months ago.

Maybe this assignment will give the two of them a nice chance to bond, Aramis thinks sarcastically. Or, you know, not.

While he would love nothing more than to be angry with Tréville for consistently pairing Athos with the two of them ever since their first operation together, Aramis is grudgingly forced to concede that his captain has the right of it: they _do_ work well together. Athos has shown himself to be a natural leader, with a feel for tactical planning that has made their operations tight and well-considered where he and Porthos were sometimes too reactive, and they have both been happy to let him take the reins.

There are also advantages to being brought up a noble that have made themselves clear to Aramis: he's found that Athos has an instinctive understanding of court politics, in addition to the kind of diplomatic skills that neither he nor Porthos have ever bothered to try and cultivate, and which Aramis has seen in few of his fellow Musketeers. Combined with Athos' frankly _astonishing_ swordsmanship, he is starting to wonder if Tréville has seen a potential successor in him.

If he and Porthos manage to stick with Athos, they could all go far together; and Aramis likes to think he's too much of a pragmatist to turn his nose up at that kind of an opportunity. While their personal relationship is still very hit-and-miss (and, if he's honest, mostly miss), he hopes that if their successes of the last few months continue, they will at least learn to fully respect each other in time, even if they're never truly friends.

He stifles a yawn, very nearly unsuccessfully, and tries to school his features into those of the perfect fighting machine: ever alert to danger, devoid of all opinions, and certainly not glaring at Monsieur le Prince's elaborately-clothed back as he takes tea with the Comte of some Godforsaken backwater, and wishing the man would _fucking shut up._

At least he doesn’t appear to be stirring sedition at the moment – it being an open secret that Monsieur's hand was very much present in a recent attempt on Cardinal de Richelieu's life, for which one man hanged (a man who was not the king's brother, of course). And even though Aramis thoroughly suspects Monsieur really is as thick as two short planks, he can't imagine he's clueless enough not to understand that the presence of the King's guard in his household is there to send a message: that he just needs to sit down, shut the fuck up and marry his future wife without making any more attempts to bump off the man who chose her.

This reminds Aramis that he should actually be trying to listen to the conversation happening in front of him, as he'll no doubt be expected to report back on anything interesting that's said; but he just can't do it for more than a minute or two without losing the will to live. He hopes Athos at least is paying attention.

Monsieur le Prince and the provincial Comte wander off towards the other end of the drawing room (which is vast), and Aramis seizes his opportunity to inch closer to Athos, because even talking to someone with whom you don't really get on is better than standing there in silence for another two hours.

"I've come up with a game," he says quietly, hoping his moustache will hide any movement of his lips. "How many different potential assassination methods can we come up with for Monsieur? Loser buys."

Athos keeps looking straight ahead; but Aramis can swear he sees one corner of his mouth lift. "That doesn't seem true to the sprit of our engagement."

"On the contrary, our task is surely to anticipate any possible threat to Monsieur's existence and impending marriage," Aramis replies, deadpan.

Athos raises an eyebrow in response. "I stand corrected," he comments wryly, and Aramis forgets for a moment that they aren't friends, and gives him a smirk in reply.

* * *

The upside to being the kind of bodyguard who's there to send a message rather than to do any actual guarding is that at least when your charge retires early, you get an evening off.  

Aramis is still in fucking Orléans, of course; far from his comrade and from any ladies of his acquaintance, but at least he can have a couple of drinks and maybe play some cards, and hopefully avoid getting arrested again.

His attention is drawn by Athos entering the tavern where they're staying, and Aramis watches the other man order a bottle of wine, as he finishes the last of his stew. He raises a hand in greeting, expecting Athos to join him at the table; and so is taken aback when Athos just nods and makes as to walk past him, towards the stairs to their rooms.

"You won't join me?"

"No thank you."

Aramis frowns. "You're sure?"

Athos shrugs guiltily. "I'd prefer not."

"Oh, please yourself," Aramis snaps, annoyed and a little hurt. They may have little more than an uneasy truce, but the only person he knows in the whole place refusing to share a drink with him still stings.

He stares crossly into his empty bowl; but a few seconds later hears the scraping of the stool across from him as Athos sits down.

"That was ill-mannered, please forgive me," Athos says, pouring them both a fresh drink from the bottle he had under his arm. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company."

"No kidding," Aramis replies, wondering how long it has been since Athos _has_ been good company, but not really wanting to ask.

"I would ask if you're enjoying our assignment," Athos begins, "but…"

Aramis finds himself surprised into laughter. "Our _mutual friend_ is a pompous arse who meddles in political affairs purely for the sake of meddling, and changes his convictions more often than his underpants. Incidentally, I counted nine potential methods of assassination in there."

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Any where you're the assassin don't count."

Aramis is somewhat cheered to find that Athos makes no further move to excuse himself, and they end up spending most of the evening playing endless rounds of piquet, making him glad he thought to bring a pack of cards along. They are fairly evenly matched, pushing the same pile of écus back and forth as no real advantage is gained. All the money goes on wine anyway, so Aramis reasons with himself that either way they're both winning.

As the evening advances, the game dies off and the tavern slowly empties, but the two of them keep drinking. Aramis isn't quite matching Athos drink for drink, but he's close behind; and he can start to see Athos descending into the drunken melancholy he's caught glimpses of once or twice, that he suspects is his usual state of an evening, and wonders if there's anything he can do to keep it at bay.

Probably not, he decides; whatever haunts the man isn't going to dissipate through the force of even his diverting company.

"You make me think of my brother."

It's the first thing either of them have said in some time; it comes out of nowhere, and Aramis finds he has no idea how to respond. He didn't even know Athos has a brother.

He tries for light-hearted. "Witty, handsome…?"

"I think that maybe he was _like you_ ," Athos says instead in a low voice, leaning in, and putting his hand on Aramis' arm for a brief moment.

It's immediately clear what he means.

Before Aramis can say anything in response, Athos is speaking again. "Forgive me – this is why I drink alone," he laughs humourlessly. "I'm not good company."

"So you keep saying," Aramis replies, piqued. "But as you've said it now, you might as well explain yourself."

Athos sighs and drains his glass. "I never knew for sure, but I had my suspicions about him. I don't think there was ever a woman."

Aramis notes Athos' use of the past tense and decides not to ask any further about the brother. "Is that why you've forgiven us our sins?" he asks instead, ironically.

He isn't expecting a confession, but Athos just nods, seriously. "I would have expected to feel revulsion, but instead all I could think was, what if that was the life he'd led?" He stops, then blurts out, "Why _do_ you do it?"

"I choose to follow my desires," Aramis answers simply; and considers whether or not he should say anything further, before deciding to do it anyway. "There's… someone else I know who feels it to be his only option."

"Do you love each other?"

Aramis has to think about it for a moment. He imagines Porthos – his laugh, his broad, strong body – and then tries to imagine his absence. He's not sure he can picture it.

"I believe we do."

Athos nods. "Love at least, I understand." He tries to speak lightly, but there's something bleak in his expression, and Aramis knows instinctively that his curiosity would not be welcomed.

He wonders, instead, if they are managing to get somewhere with each other at long last.

"I should retire." Athos stands abruptly. He shakes the bottle on their table and seeing it's empty, sighs. But he makes no move to request another, which Aramis thinks is probably for the best.

"Long day tomorrow," Aramis offers. "We've got to make sure our mutual friend doesn't try and overthrow anybody he shouldn't."

"Quite. Good night," Athos replies, and takes his leave.

Aramis stretches his legs out underneath the table, and absently swirls the inch of wine left in his cup. He suddenly has plenty to reflect upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 [Gaston, Duke of Anjou](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaston,_Duke_of_Orl%C3%A9ans) (later Orléans), was the brother of Louis XIII. He was known at Court by the ceremonial title of 'Monsieur le Prince'.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Paris, July 1626

Aramis sighs and turns over in the narrow bed. He's not used to single beds – or beds without someone else in to warm them. It's been quite a few weeks since he last left Paris, and Porthos has been sleeping with him more often than not.

Not that they've been doing a great deal of sleeping.

And the last few days have been even worse, or better: a long-overdue reunion with his friend Maria, erstwhile lady of the night and all-round patron saint of the best bad ideas, has left Aramis with rope burn on both thighs and not inconsiderable trouble sitting comfortably. It's almost a relief to be on night duty, where famously nothing happens, and perhaps he can get a reasonable amount of shut-eye.

The next thing he knows, Aramis wakes with a start to the sound of hammering on his door, and his soldier's instincts propel him into full wakefulness before he's fully conscious of what's happening. When he _does_ realise, he groans reflexively. Just his luck that he should be on duty on the one night that there's actually a situation.

"Coming!" he shouts, and wrestles himself as quickly as possible into his clothes. He's still buckling on his sword belt as he strides to the door, and opens it expecting to see one of his fellow guards – but the man standing there is Athos. Who by rights should already be sleeping it off somewhere, not banging his door down in the middle of the night with a candle in one hand and a mostly-full bottle in the other, already looking considerably the worse for wear even by his impressive standards.

Aramis wonders if he's stumbled here from their local, or all the way from his lodgings, and hopes it isn't the latter.

"I'm afraid I don't have any cups," Athos says, slurring slightly; and then, as if it has just occurred to him, "Were you sleeping?"

"Yes, but I'm awake now," Aramis replies, irritated; but he stands back to let Athos in all the same. Of course it has to be _tonight_ that the man decides he wants to have a bonding session. "I don't have any cups either, but there's a stool for you to sit on. And don't expect me to stand on ceremony."

"My apologies for the intrusion. I do appreciate your hospitality," Athos replies, perching himself on the stool with some difficulty. Aramis notes with alarm that Athos is not even being sarcastic; he realises belatedly how hopeless his comrade's expression is, and chastises himself internally for his lack of tact.

He reaches out a hand to steady the other man, when it looks for a second as though he'll fall off the stool entirely. "Athos. What troubles you?"

"This is not my favourite time of year. In fact, I would prefer to pass it by entirely," Athos replies slowly, not meeting Aramis' eyes. "I would rather not dwell on the past, but instead drink with a friend and talk of something else."

Aramis blinks in surprise. He supposes that for someone who's never given a sign of having any friends or loved ones left in the world, he probably _is_ Athos' best friend.

"You honour me." Aramis inclines his head in recognition of the compliment, smiling. "It is always good to drink with a friend."

He takes the bottle from Athos' hands and sits back down on the bed, wincing as he lands a little too enthusiastically.

Athos frowns. "Are you injured?"

Clearly nothing escapes Athos even when he's three sheets to the wind. "Just aching muscles," Aramis replies vaguely, taking a swig of what turns out to be a tolerable wine.

There's no need to mention which muscles, or why.

Athos nods thoughtfully. "Porthos did kick your arse rather spectacularly this morning."

As much as Aramis would like to point out that his terrible sparring earlier was a direct result of a night with Maria, that would hardly be prudent or discreet; so he lets the comment pass, and they talk for a while of the regiment. It's a pleasant conversation, and Aramis reflects that as they've slowly got to know each other, and become real comrades rather than just three men who work together, on his good days Athos has turned out to be fine company. As well as a dry wit and keen observational skills, he's often content to let Aramis hold court, and listens with a fresh ear to stories that Porthos has already heard innumerable times.

Aramis has also begun to get a sense of Athos' bad days: as he withdraws from the world and into the bottle, and shuns all company, much as he did when they first met. He finds he's touched by the fact that today, which is clearly one of them, Athos has still chosen to seek out his company.

Soon the conversation lulls, leaving Aramis feeling awkward; and he drinks reflexively to cover it. He's never done well with horses in the corner1, and this one's eighteen hands high with steam coming off its flank. So he waits for Athos to find something that he does want to speak of.

"Have you read any of Montaigne's work?" Athos suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

"Yes, I've read some of the Essays," Aramis replies. "I believe he was one of France's most modern thinkers. Probably still is."

Athos' eyes light up. "Oh, I agree. I also admire his work. 'Of Friendship' in particular has often given me great solace."

Athos suddenly looks away, embarrassed, as if he's revealed too much; and Aramis wonders what exactly is at play here. He had thought the conversation was casual, but from Athos' response it seems to be something more – though he can't yet see what.

 _'Of Friendship' indeed_ , he thinks. There's clearly been a woman in Athos' past, a woman who has left him so cynical regarding the fairer sex; that's no great deduction, and explains why he doesn't appear to have a mistress. The veneration of male friendship _is_ interesting, though.

The fact that Aramis himself has always read that essay as a love story notwithstanding.

He finds he's very curious to see where this is going.

" _'I find it could not otherwise be expressed, than by making answer: because it was he, because it was I',_ " he quotes with a smile. "The friendship so perfect it is not a mere friendship but a brotherhood."

Athos eyes him carefully, but says nothing for a moment; before taking a gulp of the wine as if it were water.

"Montaigne speaks of his abhorrence of the Grecian licences," he replies at last, so quietly that Aramis barely hears him.

Aramis' first thought is that Athos has come here to argue morality with him, and feeling a stab of betrayal, prepares to say something vicious in reply; but he marks the wildness in Athos' eyes just in time, and wonders if actually they are not so far apart on their interpretation of that essay as he'd thought.

"I rather think Montaigne wrote what he thought he could publish," Aramis replies, trying to keep his tone light, but choosing his words carefully. "Though I don't I believe the Greeks had the right of it."

Athos nods. "In your experience?" he asks, and then, "I… excuse me. That was inappropriate."

"No, it's a fair question. And we were both already thinking it."

For a start, he and Porthos don't exactly embody any Greek ideals. He could imagine their philosophers' shock should they discover it's the big burly one who most loves to be fucked in the arsehole.

"I've read enough of the Greeks to understand they had a social structure where some forms of desire between men were acceptable and others not," he continues, quieter now, leaning in towards Athos, and conscious of the fact that he's speaking explicitly. "And yes, I have observed that without that structure present, it normally takes other forms than pederasty."

Athos is silent for a few moments, considering. "So is that what he's describing? Montaigne?"

Aramis shrugs, "Well, short of asking him, who can be sure?"

"Please, I must know!"

Aramis hadn't meant to be facetious, but the sudden note of desperation in Athos' voice leaves him feeling ambushed. Curiosity he had expected; Athos has had questions of him before, which Aramis had always presumed related to his brother.

But this doesn't sound like it's about the brother. This sounds like it's about Athos himself, unless his comrade really _did_ wake him up in the middle of the night for a spot of literary criticism, which he somehow doubts.

He searches Athos' face for confirmation, and there's something haunted in it that Aramis doesn't like at all.

"If I wished I could call myself Michel and him Etienne2," Aramis replies truthfully. "And yes, I could see us mirrored in Montaigne's words. But beyond that I know no more than you."

He starts to lean back; but Athos grabs his wrist. "Would you help me find out?"

_Oh, wow._

Aramis knows he's staring; but decides that's a reasonable response when you've been completely blindsided.

In any other situation, with any other person, he would have said yes without hesitation.

But here, now, as he considers what's being asked of him, he hesitates.

He truly looks at Athos: the frantic glint in his eyes, his white-knuckle grip on Aramis' wrist, estimates the amount of alcohol he's had; and the stakes just seem too high.

"I think you should go to bed, Athos," Aramis says kindly, before he does anything he'll regret, working to prise Athos' fingers from his wrist. Athos stares at him for a second, before abruptly snatching his hand back and stumbling from the room, closing the door a little too loudly behind him.

Aramis sighs and takes a slug of wine, before putting a hand to his forehead. He's just taken possibly the first sensible decision of his life where a potential conquest is concerned, and wonders if the sensible decision can still be said to be the _right_ one.

Athos is definitely attractive, that part would be no hardship. And he wants… _something_ from Aramis, but he's damned if he can figure out what, and doubly damned if he knows whether it would make the man worse or better.

* * *

Athos manages to avoid him entirely for the next few days, always managing to be either busy or absent when they're not on duty, but Aramis eventually corners him polishing his weapons in the equipment store.

"You've become a hard man to find," he says, closing the door behind him before sitting next to Athos on the bench, only an inch closer than normal.

"I have shamed myself," Athos replies, not looking at him.

"Nonsense, brother," Aramis replies deliberately, remembering their discussion of the other night, and it has the desired effect; the hope lifts in Athos' expression. He leans in closely, one hand on Athos' shoulder, and speaks directly into his ear. "To be frank, I was quite tempted."

Athos says nothing in reply, but Aramis can hear it unspoken: _and yet you didn't_.

But he doesn't want to answer that now, so he takes up cloth and polish and works beside Athos in silence.

He had hoped that finding Athos when he's sober would mean finding some answers; but instead it has just doubled the feeling that he's in distinctly over his head here.

He needs to talk to Porthos.

* * *

That evening, as his lover works the kinks from his overused muscles, Aramis briefly relays the events of the other night, leaving out all allusion in favour of imparting just the broad strokes, right up to the point where Athos asked him to bed.

He cranes his neck to see Porthos' reaction, which he decides could best be characterised as unfairly suspicious. "Let me get this straight. He asked you to… experiment with him? Just like that?"

"Sort of. Through the medium of philosophical discussion." Porthos looks blank. "Never mind."

"How was he, then?"

Aramis shakes his head. "I don't know. I told him to go to bed. His own bed, that is."

"You not interested?" Porthos asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"It's not a question of _interested_. I thought about it. But it's too…" Aramis tries not to say _fucked up_ , and in doing so fails to say anything at all for a moment.

"So why did he come to you?"

"Who knows?" Aramis turns towards Porthos as he lies down next to him. "Because we've had a heart to heart once or twice. Because I've got a reputation. Because –" Aramis stops as something occurs to him; there's something in Porthos' face that looks a lot like jealousy. "Are you sweet on him?"

Porthos gives him a look, "I wouldn't call it that."

"You are!" Aramis grins, elbowing him in the ribs.

He notes with glee that Porthos actually looks embarrassed. "I wouldn't say no," his lover replies. "But I'm surprised he was interested."

"Well, it appears to be eating away at him," Aramis replies. "In addition to his mysterious past, of course. But I don't know if it would make things better or worse."

"You care about him too," Porthos says, knowingly. "Otherwise you wouldn't be so careful."

Aramis makes a face of resign, not knowing how to respond to that in the end. He has called Athos brother, and meant it; and still something holds him back. If they are truly brothers then he should not doubt him still, and yet he does.

"We're a good team," Aramis replies, and Porthos gives him a look that says _we both know that's not what I mean_. "But no, I don't think it's what we need."

He's taken aback when Porthos glares at him as if he's being stupid.

"Maybe we're what he needs," his comrade replies, as if it should be obvious.

Porthos, who's never normally the one who thinks these things are simple, who's showing Athos a trust that Aramis can't fathom.

He doesn't work it out until much later, with Porthos' sleeping form curled around his back and his breath blowing cool rhythmic draughts across the back of his neck: he's glimpsed something in Athos that's fractured, an exposed nerve; and should he let his guard down for them, Aramis is wary of the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 i.e. elephants in the room.  
> 2 The author and his best friend; here, Aramis means himself and Porthos.


	5. Chapter 5

#### Paris / Forêt de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, August 1626

Aramis pulls his sword out of the last bandit's body with a flourish, and straightening up, turns to his two comrades. "Pub, gentlemen?"

"Pub." Porthos replies with a grin.

"At least tell me you're going to clean your swords first."

Aramis rolls his eyes. Trust Athos to take him literally. "Of course, but _after_ that. I think we've earned a drink or several."

"You'll join us?" Porthos asks, looking questioningly at Athos.

"I was planning to retire early," Athos replies, gesturing vaguely behind him as if in the direction of his lodgings.

"No, come on," Aramis replies, looping his arm through Athos' and pulling him along, out of the alleyway where their showdown took place and back onto the main street. "We've had a brilliant week, we've flushed out probably every small-time gang this side of Paris, and we'll celebrate it together."

"Alright, but not too late. We ride at dawn, remember." Athos disentangles his arm within a few seconds; but to Aramis' quiet triumph, follows them without further protest in the direction of the nearest well.

"To spend a week standing behind the King and looking pretty. How could we forget?" Porthos growls to himself, clearly not looking forward to their next assignment.

Aramis considers it prudent not to reply, but privately he agrees with Porthos. For a group of men who are arguably among France's most elite soldiers, being used as decoration while His Majesty entertains at Saint-Germain-en-Laye is nobody's idea of a good time.

He can worry about that tomorrow, though; for now, he wants to take a moment to celebrate the achievement that is getting Athos to accompany them to The Fox, for only the second time since their conversation in the garrison a few weeks previously, which had put any progress he'd made with the man over the months since he joined the guard firmly in reverse.

But by tacit agreement, he and Porthos haven't allowed Athos to just withdraw from their lives. They've actively sought out his company, calling on him at his lodgings if he doesn't appear, dragging him into everything they do together (well, almost everything). The liberties they've taken have mostly been granted them, and Aramis thinks Athos does secretly appreciate it, though he'd never admit as much. Being treated as a brother, the third of three, as an equal rather than an afterthought.

At the well they dampen the spare rags they always carry and wipe the blood from their swords, each man cleaning his weapon carefully. The evening's still warm, and uncomfortably close. Aramis rubs a handful of cool water on his face and neck, looking forward to night.

He watches Athos drink from a cupped palm, and his eye's caught by the movement of the other man's white throat shifting against blue leather as he swallows, the few drops of water that don't make it into his mouth and fall, glistening, from his beard; and Aramis finds himself wondering again about what Athos wanted from him all those weeks ago. It's always in the back of his mind now, and while he supposes it doesn't truly _change_ anything, it does cast his comrade in a different light. Aramis had always thought of Athos as a loner, not as someone who needed them.

He finds he rather likes being needed.

It's flattering, of course, but it's more than that. When he wants to, when he isn't pushing them away, Athos _fits_ them. He balances them, with his leadership, his consideration and his cool head.

Aramis repeatedly finds himself thinking about other places he might fit, like between their bodies, sweat-slick.

But as he said to Porthos back then, taking Athos to bed could never be a simple conquest. It would be an extension of brotherhood, of love, that he's just not sure they're all ready for.

Athos sees him watching and looks away just as quickly, and it feels as if a door has closed.

* * *

The next afternoon sees the three of them riding through the forest at Saint-German-en-Laye, scouring for poachers, who the King believes have been filching his game. Enjoying the cool shade of the trees and the ambling of his mount, Aramis reflects that this is significantly more enjoyment than he'd expected to get out of today. While he's not convinced that a few shoddily-constructed traps are an immediate threat to either the nation or the royal person, it's definitely better than standing at attention in the drawing room for hours on end, while his Majesty and his guests sip China tea and talk about something boring. There will certainly be enough of that to go round the rest of the week.

If he wanted to he could probably blame Athos for this assignment, as it's only since he became a Musketeer that Tréville has started calling on the three of them as ceremonial guard; but really he knows it to be an investment in their futures, tedious as it is. And to be fair, it's not like they don't get their share of danger and glory on _other_ missions, when they don't have to act as military wallpaper.

In hindsight, Aramis will be the first to admit that he's slacking off; not paying a great deal of attention to his surroundings, and certainly not searching for evidence of poachers. It's a warm late summer's day, and even if these men _do_ exist, he can't imagine they'll have chosen the middle of the afternoon to hunt, especially with the likelihood of running into the royal party. He's really not expecting this to turn out as anything more than a stroll round the forest and back to the residence for supper.

He's let the heat and the slow, steady movement of his horse lull him into drowsiness; and the first moment he realises there's something wrong is when he suddenly hears Athos yell, "Duck!"

He responds automatically, and thanks God for good reflexes as a musket ball whizzes past where his head had been a split second before.

While he has no idea what on earth they could have stumbled into here, in the middle of the bloody royal forest of all places, Aramis decides one thing very quickly: that anyone who's willing to openly attack the King's men is either stupid, psychopathic, or has a hell of a lot to lose.

Within seconds they've all dismounted and drawn their swords, too far from each other to back together, and separated by their foe. Aramis can see six men – five, he amends, as Athos takes one out with a clean blow to the chest. His own shot misses by a whisker, the man pulling off a feint that's as lucky as it is good, and there's no time to reload before two of them are on him, swords drawn.

They're good fighters, too – though not so good that he can't keep both of them at bay – and these are _clearly_ no ordinary bandits.

He glances quickly behind him, and sees that Athos and Porthos have managed to group together to fight the other three. They're doing better than he is right now, and he concentrates on gutting these two as quickly as possible so that they can find out what the hell's going on here.

He parries his opponents' first few blows, remaining on the defensive as he sizes them up. To his right is a big man, a few inches taller than him and built like a brick shithouse, probably more suited to wielding an axe than a sword, who's hitting hard and moving slowly. The second man is rat-faced and wiry, his swordsmanship fast and aggressive but lacking technique.

The rat-faced man is the greater threat, Aramis decides, as he's more likely to get in a lucky hit; but he's also noticeably tiring. Aramis waits for him to take a big lunge – which he misses – and a split second later he feints in and out of the big man's path, catching his blade full across his sword guard as he thrusts his off-hand dagger into the rat-faced man's chest.

Taking the hit sends a shockwave of pain up his arm, but he holds firm; and the rat-faced man is dead in seconds. After that he makes short work of the big man, who has nothing to block him with and simply can't match his speed. It's barely half a minute before he thrusts his sword through the man's stomach.

He turns back to his companions, with a shout of triumph on his lips; but it dies away in moments as he takes in the scene at the other side of the clearing.

Athos has just stabbed one man full in the chest as he struggles to hold off another; and a third man, who Aramis would swear wasn't there before, stands in the middle of the clearing with a gun pointed square at Porthos' heart.

Aramis won't make it, he knows that; but he runs anyway, boots pounding in the scrub, heart pounding as the man pulls the trigger: and he meets Porthos' eyes in a last look of horror and desperation and bursting love.

But as the man fires, Athos, with moves of lightning, manages to seemingly simultaneously skewer his foe _and_ throw himself desperately towards Porthos, blocking his body with his own, and taking the ball in his back that was meant for Porthos' heart.

Not two seconds later Aramis slits the man's throat, and then after casting around for other threats and seeing none, rushes over to the other two as fast as he can, where Porthos is squatting down over Athos' prone form.

"Thought that was it then," Porthos says unnecessarily, looking as though he can't quite believe it himself; and Aramis never does this when they're working, never never _never_ , but he grabs Porthos by the lapels and kisses him full on the mouth, scarcely trusting the proof of his senses.

" _Joder 1_, Porthos, I love you so much," all of the words fall out of his mouth in a hurry, as if he's only got moments to speak them, as if Porthos might still be snatched away. "Nobody else matters, it's only you. I swear to God if-"

He stops abruptly as Porthos pushes him gently but firmly away. "Athos first," his lover says gently, and Aramis realises with a guilty start that Athos has just _been shot_ and might be dying.

"Forgive me," he says contritely, to the man over whose body he has just leaned with scarcely a thought. He rolls Athos carefully onto his back to assess the damage, mindful of the pained groan this causes.

He's conscious, which is a good sign; although he seems only half present. Mindful that he was shot in the back, Aramis wipes his still-bloody dagger on his own shirt, before using it to rip Athos' shirt open and pushing it back off his chest, looking for an exit wound.

It seems Athos may have just cheated death. The ball appears to have gone clean through his body, exiting right on Athos' side under his armpit. Though the wound's a bloody mess and has probably shattered at least one rib, it doesn’t seem to have damaged anything vital; and if they can stitch him up and keep everything clean, then hopefully he should survive with no long-term effects.

"There's an exit wound," Aramis says with relief, laying a hand on Porthos' arm. "Can you look for the ball to make sure?"

"You've been obscenely lucky," he says to Athos, as he throws off his own jacket and shirt, before cutting a long strip of linen off in a spiral.

"Here!" He looks up to see Porthos holding the stray ball between thumb and finger, still slick with blood; and takes that as his cue to use the hopefully not too dirty and sweaty strip of shirt to bind Athos' ribs, hoping that will at least stem the blood flow until he can get him to fresh water and his sewing kit.

Athos moans again as Aramis lifts him half onto his lap in order to get the makeshift bandage all the way round his chest, and Aramis watches with interest as Porthos squats down beside them and clasps Athos' hand in both of his.

"Athos, look at me," Aramis demands, and the other man manages to meet his eyes, though looking as if he's having to work to stay conscious.

"The ball passed right through you, and as far as I can tell it's not hit anything major," Aramis tells him, wiping the perspiration from Athos' brow with what's left of his own shirt. "I think you'll be fine. I do need to stitch you up though."

Athos doesn't try to reply, just closes his eyes with an expression that Aramis really hopes is relief.

"I'll go look for water," says Porthos, standing. "If those men were camping out here they'll have to have been by a stream."

"Alright," Aramis replies, though ice grips at his heart at the idea of Porthos leaving his sight after what's just happened. But the fact remains that they need water, their horses have all bolted, and they can't expect Athos to walk, so it seems like it's the only option available to them. "Help me get him comfortable first."

Porthos lifts Athos' torso up a little by the shoulders, so that Aramis can move into a cross-legged position and put his own jacket back on, and then lowers Athos' back into his lap. He groans slightly, the only outward sign as to the pain he's in save the cold sweat forming again on his brow, and Aramis wraps his arms carefully across his torso, as much for his own comfort as for Athos'.

Aramis kisses Porthos again before letting him go all the same, no longer caring that their lips are inches from Athos' face.

"Hey, it's alright," Porthos says softly, taking Aramis' face in his hands. "I'll be fine, I've got two loaded guns and a sword. Be back soon."

"Okay." _You nearly weren't fine,_ Aramis thinks, but he doesn't need to say it, and he doubts Porthos enjoyed the reminder of his own mortality either.

As Porthos disappears through the trees, he looks down at Athos and sighs heavily. The man he thought so little of, who's just taken a bullet to save his lover. A shot that he must have fully expected would kill him, or at least leave him an invalid.

Who values their lives so much; or his own so little.

Aramis should thank him. He should pledge his life to him, should try and put into words the unnameable value of what Athos has done for him, for them.

Instead he just says, "Why did you do it?"

He wasn't expecting a response, but Athos must still be semi-conscious; and what he hears chills him.

"Because his life is worth more than mine."

Aramis wants to disagree, he really does; but he would sacrifice ten of Athos to protect Porthos, and some perverse kind of honour won't allow him to do Athos the disservice of pretending otherwise. So he says nothing, feeling shame burn in his throat.

"The woman I loved died, and I would not have you know that pain," Athos murmurs, eyes still screwed shut. "He is loved, and I am not."

"Would you let yourself be?" Aramis asks, mostly rhetorically; and this time Athos doesn't respond.

"You should sleep," he says after a few moments, and on impulse bends to kiss Athos on the forehead.

The other man's eyes open at that, in a sudden burst of surprise and joy. "Thank you," he whispers.

"I should be thanking you for saving him," Aramis argues.

"No…" Athos' hand finds his own and squeezes it weakly. "I would be honoured to give my life for my brothers."

* * *

It turns out that at least one of their horses had the good sense to wander back in the direction it came, as it's only a couple of hours before a group of their fellow Musketeers come to collect them, still before dusk, with promises to scour the forest the next day and find out exactly who the men who attacked them were, and what they were up to. 

Once the three of them are safely back inside the King's residence and have lain their injured companion on clean sheets, Aramis checks Athos' wounds, and decides that the stitching he put in in the forest is good enough to hold, though a little unsightly. Athos appears to be out cold, but his patient wakes with a hiss when Aramis cleans the area again, this time with brine.

"I'm sorry," Aramis finds himself saying as he pats the last of the blood away with the cloth. "I have to do the other side as well, then it's over." Athos is a soldier, and he knows what it is to be patched up as well as any of them, but Aramis finds that he genuinely regrets the pain he's causing.

 _Your mistrust is a fine reward for his devotion_ , he thinks suddenly, angrily.

He breathes out slowly, determined not to let his emotions show. "Porthos, could you lift him up so I can rebandage this?"

"Sure." Porthos perches on the edge of the bed and hoists Athos up by the armpits, as gently as possible, but still making the other man grimace with the pain.

Aramis rebandages Athos' ribs efficiently, before nodding to Porthos to indicate that he can lower him back down again. Taking a step back from the bed, he doesn't miss the gentle way his lover tucks the blankets back over Athos where they've fallen down, and strokes his hair from his brow, as if checking for fever.

"Thank you," Athos mumbles again, weakly.

"You shouldn't be thanking us," Aramis replies, more harshly than he intended, suddenly feeling exhausted by the whole situation.

"Aramis!"

He starts at the anger in Porthos' tone, and looks at him in surprise.

"It's a great gift Athos has given us," his lover continues, more gently, but still clearly unimpressed. "At least do him the courtesy of accepting it gracefully."

Aramis sighs and sinks into the chair beside the bed, as he puts his head in his hands for a moment. Porthos is right, as usual; he's being an idiot. "Forgive me, Athos," he replies, raising his head to look the other man in the face.

Athos smiles weakly. "You've had a trying day. It's already forgotten."

Aramis holds up a hand. "No, I…"

He finds he wants to explain; or at the very least, feels he owes Athos that much.

"I've ill-used you," he says at last. "You were willing to give your life for us, and I've never trusted you as I should have. And when you came to see me before, in the garrison… you asked me for help and I turned you away."

Athos looks away. "You shouldn't feel obliged…"

"Shut up." Aramis leans over on impulse to take Athos' hand in his, where it's curled around the edge of the blanket. "It's nothing to do with obligation."

"It's about brotherhood," Porthos chips in unexpectedly, kneeling down by the bed. "Sharing everything."

"Exactly," Aramis replies. "We're here for you. We're yours, and you're ours. Whatever you want that to mean."

The hope that suddenly blazes in Athos' expression is a sight to see; and Aramis leans forward to kiss him.

But Athos turns his face away, and says, "No," in a voice that's almost a whisper.

Aramis thinks for a moment that he's misinterpreted something crucial, that they've been talking at cross-purposes all along, and wishes for a second for the ground to swallow him up; but Athos squeezes his hand, and says in a shaky voice, "I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

"Of course, I'm sorry," Aramis replies, belatedly remembering that Athos has just _almost died_ and here he is, being completely inappropriate.

"Aramis is presumptuous like that." Porthos says, giving him a glare.

"Do you want us to leave you alone?" Aramis asks apprehensively.

"No, I'd… much rather you both stayed."

"Okay." Aramis squeezes Athos' hand, relieved that his faux pas doesn't seem to have damaged their relationship any further. "Just tell us what we can do for you."

"You –" Athos flounders, unable to put his need into words; instead he removes his hand from Aramis' grasp and uses it to draw his blanket back, in clear invitation.

Aramis shares a look with Porthos, who gives him an approving nod, before getting up to lock the door.

"It's late," he says, sliding the bolt home. "Nobody will call on us till morning."

Aramis strips to his smallclothes, before beckoning Porthos over. They kiss long and lovingly; he keeps it relatively chaste, mindful of Athos' eyes upon them, but wanting him to understand that he gets to see this now, that their intimacy includes him.

As he relaxes into Porthos' arms, Aramis feels the last of his energy leave him, and a lump rises in his throat after the strains of the day. "No more getting shot," he mumbles into Porthos' shoulder, and feels the familiar rumble as his lover chuckles in reply.

"Lucky for you that I don’t plan on going _anywhere_ ," Porthos murmurs in reply.

Turning back to the bed, Aramis sees that Athos has shifted carefully back towards the wall, to give him room. Not sure if there's anything further he should say or do, he gets silently under the blanket, curling back into Athos' body, pulling the other man's arm over his waist, and taking his hand. He smiles to feel Athos' fingers squeeze his own gently.

Porthos sits down in the chair and put his hand on top of both of theirs. Aramis sees him smile over his head, at Athos, and hopes that smile is mirrored there.

It must have been an effort for Athos to stay awake this long, because within seconds he's breathing deeply and regularly.

"I'm sorry there's no room for you on the bed," Aramis whispers, "but I think we'd give Tréville a heart attack if we went and asked for a double."

"It's alright," Porthos replies, just as quietly. "Someone needs to stay awake and keep an eye on him, and you look wrecked."

It's true: he does feel utterly wrung out by the events of the day. "Alright. Wake me up in a couple of hours, though. You'll need to sleep too."

Porthos casts a nervous glance at Athos, as if to check he's fully asleep. "What you said before… I feel the same way."

"I know you do," Aramis smiles. "But it's still good to hear it."

Athos shifts in his sleep, murmuring something and burrowing closer to Aramis; and he strokes his thumb over the other man's knuckles. "Shh."

He realises that Porthos is watching the two of them with a soft expression that Aramis knows well.

"Do you love him?"

"Not yet. But I think I could." Porthos pauses. "Where do you think this is going to end up?"

"I have no idea," Aramis replies honestly. "But I'm looking forward to finding out."

Porthos smiles tiredly. "Get some sleep now. I'll wake you in a few hours."

As Aramis finally stops resisting and lets sleep take him, with Athos at his back and both their hands in his, despite the stresses and terrors of the day, he feels nothing more than optimistic, and full of love for the two men who are his as truly and surely as he is theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _Joder_ = Fuck. Thanks to [mandraked](http://mandraked.tumblr.com) for their Spanish help.


End file.
